


Tear-Streaked Stone

by Porphyrios



Series: To the End and Beyond [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: ALL THE ANGST, Angst and Feels, Canonical Character Death, Communication, Falling In Love, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, M/M, Misery, Seriously This Is Sad Yall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:28:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26886622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Porphyrios/pseuds/Porphyrios
Summary: The last day of Bilbo's stay in Erebor, interspersed with scenes from the journey.  He never imagined that leaving home could bring so much growth... or so much pain.  The prequel to After the End.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Series: To the End and Beyond [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1961656
Comments: 13
Kudos: 27





	Tear-Streaked Stone

The funeral had been long and grueling, chanted Khuzdul rumbling and growling through the hall of kings. Bilbo hated that he couldn't even wear nice clothes; his old, travel-stained garments were far less than a dwarf like Thorin deserved. Even so, he couldn't miss it, so he gritted his teeth. Standing among the companions, Balin and Dwalin were on either side of him making him feel tiny, but at least they shielded him from view. All he could see was the dwarf on the bier, hands clasped around the elven blade they had found in that troll-hole at the borders of the Shire. Thorin's hair was combed out around his head, making a dark halo around him, and his short beard looked fuller somehow. He was clad in armor much better than anything Bilbo had ever seen him wear; clearly the Treasury had been looted already for armor fit for a King Under the Mountain, though one with a reign measured in days instead of years. In all their travels, he had never seen Thorin still. The dwarf was always up, moving, doing, acting. It didn't look like Thorin lying there at all, Bilbo thought; not really.

=

They had been at Beorn's for one night and Bilbo was still feeling the effects of not eating for so long. He had stuffed himself with as much cream, butter and honey as he could; he knew that his body was desperate for fats and sugar. He had slimmed alarmingly during their trip already. The way his clothes hung off him told a grim story. Anyone in the Shire would swear he was starving to death, and he supposed by Shire standards he was. Even so, the sudden burst of heavy foods had left him light-headed so sitting and smoking was about as much as he felt up to doing. Fili and Kili were running and shouting, playing some incomprehensible fighting game that made them look like children; Dwalin and a few of the others were sparring. He was content to just sit and watch them and enjoy the gentle warm breeze blowing off the field of sunflowers.

"Master Baggins," rumbled a deep voice from behind him. Thorin stepped into his field of view and sat next to him, smiling out at the dwarves mock-fighting. Bilbo lazily offered his pouch of pipeweed and Thorin nodded, taking it and packing a small carved stone pipe that he produced from some hidden pocket. "No activities for you?" Thorin asked, letting the first smoke rings rise from his lips. "I confess myself surprised you are not out walking among the flowers."

"I thought about it," he confessed. "But for right now, I'm lucky to be sitting upright. I may take a nap before engaging in any drastic activities like flower-walking," he grinned over at the dark-haired dwarf. Thorin half-smiled back, before his face took on a strange look.

"Dwarves don't get much idle time, I'm afraid. There's always something that needs doing." Bilbo glanced again to see if he was being made fun of, but Thorin's blue eyes were distant, not teasing. The hobbit nodded, a bit surprised - this was the most words Thorin had ever spoken to him without working in some form of mockery, gentle or otherwise.

"Hobbits are a bit lazy by nature, I must admit," Bilbo said, glancing away. Kili had cornered Fili and was pelting him with pine cones, which hardly seemed part of the game they had been playing. "The Shire is rich, and safe, and many of us work hard to produce our food, but this sort of grueling journey isn't something most hobbits would be able to do even if they were so inclined... which is almost never the case." Thorin smiled properly and Bilbo's breath caught; he hated how handsome the dwarf appeared in certain slants of light. It could be... distracting.

"We are... I suppose I should say, I am... lucky, then. If no other hobbit would wish to be here, surely they would not have defended me as you did." Thorin's eyes sparkled in a ray of sunlight, turning his already warm expression into something Bilbo had never seen before. "I am in your debt."

Bilbo scoffed. "There is no debt; I was... I was glad to do it. It was the right thing to do." He could feel the blood rising in his face. Drat his Baggins complexion! "I am probably the first hobbit to kill an orc in battle since Bandobras Took the Bullroarer took down the goblin Golfimbul, though." Thorin's eyebrows went up.

"That sounds like quite a tale. That orc you killed was wearing an iron collar; did you notch your knife? These elvish blades are strong, but I do not trust the craft of the elves like I do good dwarvish steel." Bilbo could tell by the badly-hidden smile that Thorin was trying to wind him up; he'd had plenty of practice. Instead of responding, he slid the knife out of the sheath and looked at it, flipping it to one side then the other.

"Looks fine to..." Thorin had it before Bilbo could finish his sentence. He held it up level with his eye, sighting down the curved blade carefully. He made a grunting sound that could have made anything, then handed it back.

"The edge is ruined about three quarters of the way up. You should sharpen it before we leave here. Who knows when you will need it again?" Bilbo sighed; Thorin hadn't been here five minutes and had already found a task for the hobbit to do. He didn't even get a chance to agree before Thorin was digging out a sharpening stone and passing it over after wetting the surface with his waterskin. Sighing again, this time more deeply, Bilbo held up the dagger and drew the stone down it like he would a butcher knife. Thorin snatched the knife away immediately, giving Bilbo a look composed of equal parts horror and amusement. "Mahal's beard, what are you doing to that poor knife? Here, let me show you."

"I..." Bilbo started, but Thorin's hand was on his arm already, urging him to stand. When he did, Thorin moved behind him. Massive arms went around the hobbit (bringing a deep blush to his cheeks) and large, sturdy hands took Bilbo's smaller ones, holding the knife and stone.

"Like this. Lay the edge on the stone at the angle you want," came Thorin's soft words in Bilbo's ear. Whiskers tickled his neck as the dwarf spoke. His hands guided the hobbit's, laying the blade almost flat. "Now draw it evenly, following the curve, like so," Thorin pulled both hands and blade back in an even stroke, and the feeling of Thorin's arms and breath made Bilbo feel light-headed for a moment. He was uncomfortably aware of the musky, spicy scent of the dwarf's hair and beard. "Now you do it," and with those words, Thorin stepped back, smiling. Bilbo repeated the motion, then again, ignoring the trembling in his knees. He wasn't sure what to think; certainly nobody in the Shire would get so close unless they were having thoughts of... well, hobbits just didn't crowd each other like that, he thought. "Good, you've got it," the dwarf rumbled, laughing. "This way you'll end up with an edge on it instead of turning it into a dull metal stick." Bilbo tried to smile, but he still felt the echo of strong arms around him. Nodding companionably, Thorin wandered off to shout at Dwalin, leaving a very confused hobbit indeed standing on Beorn's porch in the sun.

=

The hobbit was doing alright. He told everyone who asked as much, though they kept badgering him as though they expected a different response. A blank numbness had fallen when he first realized that Thorin had died, and it had stayed with him. It was sad, of course, but he was fine, just fine. Balin's hand found his shoulder and he fought to hold onto the numb feeling; comforting gestures were difficult at the moment. Finally the singing was done and the bearers picked up the bier and marched slowly into the tunnel at the end of the hall. Most of the dwarves dispersed, but Bilbo followed Balin and his brother in the procession. Iron Hills nobles cast surprised glances at him but nobody spoke, and he kept the pace as they walked slowly to the tombs. Thorin was laid to rest in a crypt which had been carved in three sleepless days; the finest stonewrights present had labored over it but it was hardly as elaborate as he deserved. The hobbit had heard some of the dwarves talking about the rush, what a shame it was that a king should lie forever in a hastily assembled tomb, but what else could be done? As far as Bilbo could tell it didn't matter. Thorin wasn't any more dead in one tomb than another. What difference did it make?

=

The shadow of Mirkwood lay on them like a damp, musty cloak and Bilbo was already so sick of it he could barely stand it. There was no light here on any level... during the day, the sun was so enfeebled by the heavy canopy of leaves and moss above that it came through more as a dim glow than honest sunlight. Vines and creepers were everywhere, clutching at their feet as they shuffled along on the almost-path, hanging in skeins from the trees, and the moldy, bitter smell of rotten leaves and souring vegetation was omnipresent. The dwarves were by turns brooding and obstreperous, breaking their silence only to argue with each other. They had an advantage Bilbo had never dreamed he might admit, though they had to come to this filthy, lightless murk to bring it to the hobbit's attention: they had boots. Never had a hobbit from the Westfarthing felt more desire to cover his feet than Bilbo felt here, squelching along on rotting leaves and who knew what else. He understood now why the farmers of the Marish wore boots, and vowed never to mock them for it again. The sensation of disgusting slime oozing between his toes was utterly vile. 

The only thing that wasn't vile about Mirkwood was Thorin, oddly enough. The surly, rude king who could barely look at Bilbo in the beginning of their trip without some sort of sneer or vexatious comment had become oddly attentive. More than once, Bilbo had seen another member of the company raise their eyebrows as Thorin brought Bilbo water or fixed him a seat in the leaves when they camped. No comments were forthcoming, though. Ori just smiled and patted his shoulder when he asked why the dwarves seemed surprised; Bofur coughed and gave an excuse. They were the only two he felt he knew well enough to ask, so he supposed he would just stay in the dark. The hobbit had to admit, being tended to was nice and reminded him a bit of the Shire. Dwarves were much more... well, he supposed 'rough and tumble' was a polite way of saying it, both with each other and with the world in general. They were hard on their things, he had noticed, heavy handed and slapdash by hobbit standards. No wonder they needed someone who knew what quiet meant to get their gemstone or whatever it was!

Worse than the not-quite-sun was rain. On the fourth day after entering the forest it rained, they woke to an already-quenched campfire and a grey, misty, dripping forest that seemed to suck the life force from their very veins. They stumbled along in the mud and muck, and if Bilbo had thought the texture of the forest floor was disgusting before he got repeated lessons through the day of how bad things truly could have been all along. When they made camp, nobody was able to find anything dry enough to catch fire even when they scraped to the center of thick branches, so there they sat. Bilbo heard running water and found a steady stream falling from some unimaginable height, raindrops funneled together by some chance configuration of leaves, and took advantage of it to wash the worst of the filth off his feet. He wandered back to the main camp, picking his way gingerly so as not to ruin his hard work, and told Dwalin of the miniature waterfall so that everyone could refill their flasks.

Thorin stood as the hobbit emerged from the trees, and motioned for him to come and sit on a sort of bench the king had put together from some branches and a filthy blanket. He walked over and sat as the last of the light faded. Thorin joined him after refilling his own waterskin. The company bedded down quickly before the last of the light was gone. Once it became too dark to see, the shadows under the trees were full of drips and strange sounds, animals and insects calling, and Bilbo shivered in spite of himself. Almost immediately, a cloak wrapped around him and he reached out, feeling Thorin's unmistakable wolf fur collar against the side of his face. "Thank you," he said softly.

"Shh," came the hissed reply. "Let the others sleep." He nodded, then (feeling very daring, and knowing that dwarves didn't think of such things in the same way as hobbits) pressed himself gently into the heated furnace of Thorin's chest. A heavy arm went around his shoulders, and for the first time since entering the wood he could smell nothing rotten, nothing moldy, only the musky smell of Thorin. He meant to be quiet, truly he did, but a tiny sigh escaped him as he leaned further into a chest that felt like a warm wall. Thorin began to hum softly, just at the edge of hearing, and the vibration of the deep voice was soothing like nothing else had been in ages. Bilbo sank into sleep in comfort for the first time since leaving Beorn's house.

=

Thorin's body, bier and all, was laid into the sarcophagus. The whole crowd bowed as one to the tomb and then a line formed. Each dwarf bowed individually and then whispered a few words to the tomb before departing. "What is this?" Bilbo asked Balin softly.

"The final farewell. Follow me," Balin stepped into the line at the end, and Bilbo stood behind him. As the line snaked closer, the hobbit's numbness began to fray for the first time. His grief grew despite his attempts not to think of it. I will not cry, he thought, biting the inside of his cheek viciously. I refuse. I am not going to break down in front of a bunch of strange dwarves, my grief is my own. Each step he took brought him closer to the stone figure on the lid propped beside the open tomb that, he realized, looked nothing like the dwarf underneath it. Nothing at all.

Stepping forward, Bilbo heard Balin whisper "My king... I was unable to follow you where you went, but I will see you soon enough. Rest well, Thorin son of Thrain, and greet my Nuru when you see her. You were a true king." The old dwarf stood for a moment, mouth working behind his long beard, then bowed again and pressed his forehead to the edge of the stone box. With a sob that sounded like a chuckle, he straightened and stepped away. Bilbo shuffled forward and craned to peer in to the box, eyes on the body before him, waiting for it to move, the blue eyes to open and to hear it was all a joke, just a bitter jest in poor taste.

=

"Thorin?" the hobbit whispered softly from where he crouched in the hall, hidden in both the shadows and by whatever odd power the ring he found possessed to make him invisible.

" _Bilbo_?!" There was a scrabbling sound as Thorin tried to drag himself against the bars to see. Bilbo gasped when he saw the king, bloodied and bruised, clothes filthy and hair in matted disarray. Even so, he felt his heart give a great leap in his chest at the sight of the dwarf and knew all over again that he was in serious trouble. Not thinking about this right now, he repeated to himself. Not now. He slipped the ring from his finger and Thorin jumped in shock at the hobbit melting into view from nothingness practically at his cell door.

"Thorin, hush," he said quietly. "There's a guard not far from here, but I... here," he said awkwardly, slipping a satchel between the bars. It contained the best items the hobbit had been able to pilfer from the Elvenking's kitchen, a flask of wine, a loaf of a fine white bread that had almost certainly been destined for some lord's table, meat and cheese and fruits. Thorin took it from him but slung it down at his feet, reaching out again. Whatever does he want, Bilbo wondered, before strong hands grabbed him and felt his arm, his hand, his chest, his shoulders. He realized Thorin was tearing up and he looked away, shaken, feeling as though he was spying on a deeply personal moment.

"Are... are you well, Master Baggins?" came a hoarse approximation of Thorin's usual baritone rumble. Bilbo nodded, not trusting himself to speak. "I... it pleases me to see you." Even in the darkness, Bilbo could see Thorin's color darkening with a flush, and for his part he was sure that his Baggins complexion was a glowing scarlet. Good heavens, he thought, it's a good thing the others can't see us now.

"It pleases me more than I can say to finally find you as well, Thorin. There's food in that bag, eat up before the guards come. I will take the bag with me and refill it, but I..." he hated to say it. Bilbo wasn't willing to examine how much he enjoyed the dwarf's hands on him. Squaring his shoulders, he went on. "But I don't know how much time we have. You need to eat, I've seen the swill they serve you." Thorin nodded and sighed heavily, reluctantly taking his hands back through the bars and begin shoving the food into his mouth. He sipped the wine, and looked at it in surpised delight. "This is excellent wine, leave it to a hobbit to bring me gourmet fare even in a dungeon." Thorin cut his eyes at Bilbo, who was grinning back at him.

"Did you just make a joke?" Bilbo asked mischievously. "Who are you and what have you done with King Thorin the Dour? When I have freed us all, I will denounce you as an impostor." Thorin snorted in an unwilling laugh, but looked up with an expression so full of despair it frightened the hobbit.

"Will you free us all, Master Baggins?" Came the king's anguished whisper. "Better that you save yourself, I fear. Leave us, and accept my apologies that I led you so wretchedly astray. If I had..." Bilbo drew himself up in his best offended pose, glaring at Thorin and interrupted him mid-apology.

"Bosh! Utter poppycock! Of course I will free you all, and we'll hear no more of that sort of defeatist talk, thank you very much! I didn't come all this way and endure so much hardship just to leave you at the mercies of these cheap knockoff versions of proper elves! I happen to care very..." he stopped abruptly, biting his tongue to hold in the words that were trying to come out. Embarrassed, he finished "I feel very strongly about this, and won't hear a word otherwise. Now eat up and let me go and devise a plan."

"As you say, Master Baggins," Thorin said, sounding much more like himself. His tiny, devilish grin and dancing eyes made Bilbo feel quite itchy, and the hobbit couldn't help but admire the strong, white teeth tearing off a chunk of bread and cheese. Well, he mused, that could have been a great deal worse than it was. I really need to get a grip on my mouth and pull myself together.

=

Bilbo stood on tiptoe as he leaned against the stone rim, peering down at the body inside. He felt like a small child with the size of the sarcophagus forcing him to reach up just to see, and he hated it. The hobbit knew he was supposed to speak, that it was part of some odd dwarven ritual, but words had fled. Finally he cleared his throat and tried. "Thorin..." he coughed and almost gagged, grief clogging his throat to where he could scarce draw a breath. "Thorin... I..." He finally turned to Balin. "I will come back alone if I may. I cannot speak right now."

Balin's old eyes were sympathetic, which was more than Bilbo could take right now, but he nodded. "Under the circumstances..." No, Bilbo wanted to shout, don't say anything about Thorin or me or anything! Balin seemed to understand, though it went unsaid, and he nodded. "I will leave you here for a bit, then. I will be outside, at the top of the ramp. When we leave, they will seal the tomb, but a bit of delay harms nobody. Will that work?"

Bilbo nodded. That was better than he had hoped, actually. What he had to say was nobody else's business, though what use it was talking to a corpse was anyone's guess. He heard Balin's footsteps walking off, and sank down beside the tomb. I'm about to cry, he realized dumbly, before gales of weeping threw him down on the floor sobbing as though he were dying.

=

"Master Baggins," a deep voice said from the shadows near where Bilbo was sitting, staring out over the lake. He knew that voice all too well; it haunted his dreams.

"Thorin," he sighed. "I was beginning to think you were avoiding me." The dwarf sidled up to him with an uncharacteristically unsure expression on his face. Bilbo slid over on the rough bench to make room, and couldn't help but feel a rush of warmth as the dwarf sank down beside him.

"I wasn't..." Thorin began, then stopped. "Well, perhaps I was a bit," he confessed finally. "I... I owe you an apology."

"Only one?" Bilbo teased, though his heart wasn't in it. He could still see Thorin's furious face when they had gotten him out of the barrel; the hobbit had actually thought the king might strike him, and just the thought of that put an unpleasant curl of feeling in the pit of his stomach. He intentionally didn't look at the dwarf, knowing how easily he could be distracted from the foul mood he was rather enjoying, by this point.

"At least one." Thorin muttered uncomfortably. "You saved us, and I was... rather more ungrateful than I should have been."

"'Rather more ungrateful'? Are you quite serious?" Bilbo did turn and look at Thorin then, glaring at the dwarf. "You shouted at me in front of everyone and basically called me useless and incompetent! If that was merely 'ungrateful' I should hate to see 'upset'!" Thorin was staring at his hands instead of the hobbit, but Bilbo watched as he flushed a deep, burning crimson behind his short beard and his mouth twisted miserably.

"I... yes. I acted poorly, and I apologize." Thorin sat hunched on the bench, hands twisting around each other nervously. Bilbo suspected he might be one of the few people alive to have received an actual apology from Thorin Oakenshield, but that didn't make it right.

"You were a proper berk, Thorin, and you hurt my feelings. I forgive you this time," Bilbo said quietly, "but it is difficult when someone you..." he stopped uncomfortably, realizing he had put his foot right in the middle of it now. Thorin was fixated on him, sapphire blue eyes staring a proper hole in him. Fine, Bilbo thought. Into the breach. "Someone you care about insults you, as opposed to a stranger or enemy." The tiny jump that the dwarf made did not go unnoticed, though Bilbo had no idea how to take it.

"I am... very pleased to hear that you care about me," Thorin said in a curiously thick voice. "I hold you in... very high esteem as well." Looking at Thorin's discomfort, understanding finally dawned. For the first time, the hobbit began to be sure they were speaking of the same thing, and Bilbo could have laughed and run about the town shouting in joy at the fishermen. He turned quickly to the dwarven king, grinning from ear to ear, but Thorin was still speaking, making the hobbit's heart leap in his chest. "Master Baggins, I think... I think that there is something I wish to ask you."

"Yes?" Bilbo heard how breathy his voice was, but could care less at that moment. "Anything."

"However, I also think that is a discussion for another time. I suspect that it would be rash to speak before the mountain has been reclaimed." Thorin said heavily, dropping a block of stone into Bilbo's gut. Oh, he thought dumbly. But he... we were about to... weren't we? "Forgive me, I see from your face that wasn't what you thought I would say, but under the circumstances..."

"No, no, very understandable, quite right, commendable really, yes, I understand completely." Bilbo realized he was babbling but it was that or burst out crying. He had wanted Thorin like a plant wants the sun, like a gourd craves water, for months. He knew that they might none of them survive the reclaiming of the mountain; he knew it. Even so, it was a knife in the heart to see what he had wanted for so long and have it snatched away. Still, he reasoned with himself, we can wait. There's time. "I would ask one thing of you now, though, in return."

"What is it?" Thorin asked suspiciously, though his face was full of sorrow and regret as Bilbo was sure his own was in turn.

"Please call me Bilbo." The smile he got in return was almost... almost... worth waiting.

=

When the first storm of weeping had passed, Bilbo felt miserable and stuffy but dragged himself upright. "I am so angry at you," he said in a conversational voice. "If you weren't dead in front of me..." he broke off, sniffling. "If you weren't already dead, I would kill you myself. This wasn't supposed to happen, Thorin." He stopped again, fighting for control. He finally threw propriety to the winds and clambered up onto the carved tomb, perching on the thick lip of the sarcophagus so that he could stare down at the body within. Taking a deep breath, Bilbo looked at the peaceful face below him.

"Thorin Oakenshield... I love you, and if I am being honest with myself I have loved you since Rivendell if not before. Not that I didn't fight admitting it to myself. I never got a chance to tell you when you were alive, so I will tell your body. And if you truly are in the Halls of your Fathers or whatever it was that you said, I hope you can hear me, because you have broken my heart so completely by dying that I may not survive it." He dashed a sleeve across his face to mop up tears. "I never... never had much interest in romance, I'm afraid. I never saw the point in most of it, and for whatever reason nobody ever seemed to want me so it was fine. I don't know why. I understood the point as soon as I saw you. I would give my whole life to touch you again, to hear your voice, to..." He paused, fighting for control. He realized that his arse hurt where the cold stone was pressing against it, but it was a mirror to the cold stone he felt in his chest.

"It never occurred to me that you might be interested until you touched me at Beorn's house. It was so silly, just helping me sharpen a knife, but... I couldn't stop thinking about your hands on me. When you let me sleep in your cloak with you in Mirkwood, I fell so head over heels that I have been fighting not to moon over you every moment since that night. I remember every look, every touch, every glance you ever gave me, and it isn't enough. If you had lived and we had both gone on like elves until the end of time, it still wouldn't be enough. I wanted you to speak your intentions in Laketown so much that... that..." and he almost fell into the tomb itself from hunching over, tears choking him and fighting not to scream in anguish. Why, Bilbo kept asking, why, why did I live and he didn't? Why am I being tortured like this?

"I will always love you, Thorin. My heart will never be whole again. Sleep well, and if your dwarven stories are true, I pray we meet again." He climbed down slowly, tears still pouring down his face, and went to find Balin.

=

A grumbling call echoed down the hall to where Bilbo stood. "Master Baggins... come here." Honestly, Thorin, the hobbit thought. Are we back to 'Master Baggins' now? The company was busy sorting items in some sort of storeroom, but Thorin was wearing strange-looking armor, staring down the hall. His eyes had the glassy look that Bilbo had come to hate, as though he wasn't really seeing what was before him, lost in some vision of the mind. The king had seemed mad for days, and was growing ever more so. Thorin examined each person suspiciously, as though he expected treason at any moment, somehow not remembering that these were same companions who had been through the depths of hell to accompany him to this place. 

The others in the company stood around, eyeing each other and Bilbo uncertainly. Thorin's glare kept them back as he produced a chainmail shirt that seemed to be woven of silver thread. "You're going to need this. Put it on." Thorin drew Bilbo aside, though it wasn't as though they weren't still standing with everyone else. The others stared as Bilbo pulled the chain over his head, though he saw a surreptitious exchange of pouches of coins and Dwalin was grinning in a way that made Bilbo suspicious. Wretched dwarves, Bilbo thought, always betting about something. "It is a gift... a token of our friendship." A snort that was unmistakably Bofur came from the group, but the others shushed him as Thorin led him away.

What came next was madness, glaring and openly revealed. Thorin rambled about betrayal, accusing the others of theft, of treason, of lying. Bilbo knew he should be scared of him, but still. Still. It was Thorin; he couldn't truly fear him, because he knew that no matter how mad Thorin was, he couldn't be in real danger from him. When the king finally stormed off, back to his gold pile, Bilbo lingered uncomfortably in the hallway. Why, he wondered, was it never what he wanted? Thorin had said that they would... speak... after the mountain was retaken. He kept waiting. All this talk of gold and treason, of armor and swords, of kings and thrones and politics meant nothing at all to Bilbo.

"Well, that was unexpected, eh?" came Bofur's voice, sounding even more cheeky than usual, but the hobbit was in no mood for his foolishness right now. Before Bilbo had even properly looked up Balin had grabbed the smaller dwarf and hissed something in his ear, dragging him away. Each of the others walked by and clapped him on the shoulder, bowing their heads a bit, but Bilbo had no idea why. He would ask at some point, but nothing these dwarves did made any sense to him at all. It probably wasn't important.

=

"Thorin never got a chance to tell you, lad, but..." Balin began as Bilbo walked beside him on the way out of the tombs. The hobbit stopped moving.

"No." He said, in a voice like a thrown gauntlet. Balin stopped as well, looking back in puzzlement and then grimacing as he saw how broken and brittle Bilbo looked. "Do not... tell me anything about him, Balin. I... I can't." The old dwarf stood for a moment looking lost, then simply nodded once.

Side by side and lost in thought, they walked up the passage and out into the throne room. Already teams of dwarves were changing the mournful funeral decorations out for golden coronation decorations for the enthroning of Dain. So much for memory, Bilbo thought, knowing it was petty and pointless but thinking it all the same. At least if he stayed angry maybe the pain would be less.

Eventually, Bilbo made it back to the room they had given him. Fury burned in him like a bonfire, so bright and so merciless he wanted to destroy the whole mountain around himself like Smaug. He wondered, in a moment of clarity, if this was a curse the dragon had put on him. He wished he had never come to this horrible place, never touched a single piece of that accursed gold, and most of all never met a handsome dwarf named Thorin.

=

"The king wishes to see you," Ori said, gasping a bit from having run to find him. Thorin was still alive? Bilbo felt his gut clench, an almost-hope hurting as it appeared somewhere it didn't seem to belong.

"Is he...?" Bilbo got out before stopping.

"He is dying," Ori said bluntly. "Hurry." The tiny hope turned to poison in Bilbo's gut as he scurried to the healer's tent. It was rigged up out of filthy canvas, with so much dirt on the outside of it the hobbit couldn't imagine how it could possibly be sanitary inside. A fitful winter wind blew cold and grey clouds scudded across the darkening sky as Bilbo ducked inside.

Thorin lay on the cot, and Bilbo fought back a sob at the sight. His body was a mass of wounds; it was amazing that anyone could still be alive and look like that, the hobbit thought numbly. His eyes were half-closed, like he was drifting away, but as soon as Bilbo came through the door Balin leaned in close to the king's ear. "Thorin, Bilbo is here." A great gasp came from the bed, and Balin pulled the hobbit over.

"Bil... Bilbo... you came." Thorin wheezed, clutching at the hobbit's hand. "So... so sorry... everything, so sorry... forgive you... forgive me..."

"No, Thorin, no, it's fine, I forgive everything, everything." Hot tears poured onto the king's face from Bilbo's eyes. "Don't strain yourself. Lay still and let the doctors..."

Thorin grunted a harsh laugh, then winced. "Dying. I know... know it. Going to... Halls of my Fathers. If Mahal... is kind... will see you... again, Bilbo Baggins." Thorin's eyes closed as he fought for breath and Bilbo felt himself struggling in the same way.

"Thorin..." before the hobbit knew what was going on, Balin was guiding him out the door. Dain was waiting and stumped in as soon as the hobbit had left, presumably saying his own farewells. Bilbo staggered off to the side and slumped down on a barrel to one side, set there as a seat. He felt as empty and scoured as the land around the mountain, barren and burned, unable to put out even a single shoot. He watched incuriously as a few others came and went, then Balin slowly emerged the last time and signaled to a guard. Horns blew low and mournful, drums sounded slow beats and Bilbo cried alone on the side of a battlefield, wondering how he would ever survive this.

=

For the third time in as many hours, Bilbo jerked awake in his rooms, memories of Thorin's dying body still in front of him. The raucous celebrations of Dain's accession were doubtless still underway, but thankfully far enough away that it was quiet in this part of the mountain. The hobbit's cheeks were wet. He wasn't sure which was worse, the nightmares of Thorin's death or the gauzy, make-believe dreams where the dwarf draped Bilbo's body in gold and gems and called him 'beloved'. Suddenly it was all too much. He cursed, throwing things into his traveling pack... clothes, blankets, a book he had found in the wreckage of the library during Thorin's madness. _Go_ , his mind screamed, _go_. 

He burst out of his rooms into the common area and saw Gandalf sitting sprawled in front of the fireplace, smoking a pipe like nothing at all was the matter. He was briefly, overwhelmingly furious at the wizard just for seeming calm. "Gandalf," he said, marching over to him where the man had splayed himself out in front of the fire, "Take me home."

The wizard looked over, his usually mischievous eyes full of a sympathy Bilbo could neither appreciate nor handle. He sighed, stroking his beard and blowing another smoke ring. "Bilbo... it's the small hours of the night. Surely we can wait until the sun rises, at the very least?"

"I have to go now," the hobbit insisted. "Right now. I can't... I can't bear this place any longer." He sniffled impatiently, exhausted with crying yet unable to do anything else. "I'm packed. Please, let's... just go."

"My dear hobbit..." Gandalf began in his best grandfatherly voice, and Bilbo's misery turned into fury so swiftly even he was caught by surprise.

"I'm not your dear anything, blast and confound you and all wizards!" the hobbit screeched in a tone that he had never heard himself produce before. "This entire mess is all your fault, Gandalf the Grey, and well do I know it! If it weren't for your cursed meddling, I'd not be here, feeling like an orphan all over again, and these dwarves would be safe and sound in the Blue Mountains! The absolute least you could do is see me home safely after ruining my entire life, but if that's too much _bloody_ trouble for your wizardly eminence, I'll go by myself!" He caught himself, breath heaving, glaring at Gandalf who was sitting with a look of stunned amazement on his face.

"Bilbo..." the wizard sighed, and his face looked beyond ancient for a moment in the shifting firelight. "It was never my intention to cause you any harm. You must see that, surely. I am very sorry for the way things worked out, truly I am." His long fingers lifted helplessly, fell back to his lap.

Bilbo shook his head stubbornly. "Whether you intended it or not, Gandalf, harm was what you did. I was perfectly content in my smial until you came with your talk of adventures. Perhaps to a wizard, the only thing that matters are grand plans and great schemes, armies and peoples and empires. Maybe having Dain in the mountain will suit you better than a great firebreathing lizard. I wouldn't know. But what I do know is that your actions have shattered me past mending, and now I will have to live with it. I hope what you got was worth the cost of a hobbit you once claimed as a friend." With that, he marched off to the front gate, leaving an utterly confounded wizard staring after him, for once at a complete loss for words.

Bilbo had scarcely made it to the entry hall before Balin appeared. Did these dwarves never sleep, Bilbo wondered. The old advisor was clearly out of breath, and Bilbo strongly suspected that Gandalf had sent him. "Good evening, Balin," the hobbit said dourly. "And goodbye. I'm afraid I must depart, terribly sorry, best of luck with the mountain, you're all welcome to visit any time, tea is at four." Balin eyed him in disappointment and Bilbo looked away. He hated that expression.

"Bilbo..." Balin said. "Please stay for a bit. I know it's hard right now, but..."

"You know _nothing_. How dare you?" Bilbo's fury at Gandalf came roaring back, the stronger for having paused. He flared up at the old dwarf, causing Balin to take a step back in amazement. "How dare you stand there and say you know anything about how I feel? I am leaving this wretched mountain. There is nothing for me here, nor ever will be. Everything I ever wanted in this mountain is in a stone box beneath it. Goodbye." The hobbit whirled around and moved quickly towards the gate.

"He loved you, you know." Balin's voice cut through him like a sword, pulling him to a stop and making him worry briefly that all of his entrails would spill steaming on the ground. He refused to turn, though.

"I may never forgive you for saying that," Bilbo said, then continued out the gate and walked out into the darkness. Later, once the sun was up, Gandalf appeared on his horse with a spare pony, and Bilbo clambered onto it without a word. It was a long way back to the Shire.


End file.
